The Pyre
by NCS
Summary: Pyro reflects on his life from its commencement to his current circumstances following The Brotherhood's failure at Alcatraz. One thing is for sure, he is not a happy camper. All details are in line with current Canon.
1. From Ashes

**The Pyre**

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of any incarnation of the Marvel Universe, and this work is not being produced for financial gain. The rights to the characters belong to Marvel, and 20th Century Fox.

From Ashes

In hindsight, I suppose my life's pretty ironic.

I was an only child, and my parents always cared for me as a kid. We didn't have a ton of money, but there was always enough to get by. My Dad was the Minister of a poor parish in Los Angeles, while my Mom spent most of her time at home or the Church.

I suppose my parent's religious bent is where my name came from. Admittedly, naming a kid after Saint John the Baptist is not the most humble act, particularly when your names are Zachary and Elizabeth, but the moniker proved pretty fitting in the end.

For a while, I was actually very happy at home. I had loving parents who thought the world of me, or at least the idea of me, but; at that age, the distinction was difficult to grasp. I wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps: spread the good Lord's word for a living. I went to school, and had pretty decent grades. I spent some time as a Boy Scout too, learning how to tie knots, survive in the wilderness, and, most notably, how to light a fire.

I always had a healthy fear of fire as a child, nonetheless, which is another irony. From the cradle, I was taught that fire's a two-edged tool: creating and destroying. Like many things, Dad figured fire was a gift from God, which humans often misused. When I look back on my childhood, although I try not to, I always have to admit that Mom and Dad taught me some valuable lessons. Humans have certainly never understood fire, or much else. My parents, it turned out, despite all their biblical wisdom, were quite human in that respect, understanding their son least of all.

Sometimes, when I look at Bobby, I see what I was like in those days. He's like a reflection of what might have been: comforting and disturbing. That familiarity is probably what forged our friendship, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I don't think Magneto ever grasped how closely his ideology reflected my own views. He saw a bit of himself in me, I think, but he probably never quite understood why. You see, if Erik Lehnsherr died in Auschwitz, I had my own death, or maybe rebirth is a more appropriate term.

On my eleventh birthday, I woke up on fire. Or, at least, that is what it seemed like initially. While I was sleeping, I had a nightmare, which I cannot remember to this day, and then I awoke in the midst of a veritable inferno.

In the background, I could hear my mother screaming my name. My father's loud voice reverberated through the house as well, the preacher's powerful tone overcoming his distance. They were both outside the house, but I remained inside. Somehow, the flames had not disturbed me. My pyjamas remained in perfect condition. The fire did not even wake me up.

I have always wondered about that night in the burning house. You see, fire burns me. At least, it does if I'm not controlling the flames. My body is only immune to fire I control. Thus, I would come to wonder, in later years, as I further grasped my abilities' limits, whether I subconsciously caused the fire which consumed my house. Admittedly, my parents deserved it, if I did waste their house – they would show me that truth all too soon – but, nonetheless, I have always wondered about that fire. I guess that is just another of the myriad might have beens dotting my existence.

I think that my parents assumed that I was dead by the time I walked out of the house untouched by the flames. I wonder what they thought of that scene. I must have looked like the Christ child himself, baptized with fire. Of course, I'll never know what they really thought. You see, by that time, I had realized a small portion of my abilities.

"Mom, Mom, look at this! Look at what I can do!" I gleefully exclaimed.

I had held on to a small flame in my right hand after 'escaping' the fire, and began playing with my powers. Twirling my hand in a circle, I sent the flaming soaring around my head like a fiery halo. The flames danced joyfully, entirely under my control: harmless fun. What was my mother's reaction?

She screamed.

"Elizabeth, what is it? Saint John? Oh my dear Lord, have mercy upon us all."

They were afraid of me. More than that, they ran: ran away from me, as if I were some sort of demon.

I suppose I did what any other eleven year-old would have done in response. They were too fast, and I could not keep up. Eventually, I simply stumbled to a halt, utterly exhausted. Then I cried, quenching my flames with a thought in the desperate hope that they might return. The firemen probably showed up a few minutes later to save the surrounding neighbourhood, but I was gone by then.

A pair of punks attacked me. They were just humans, but I did not even have a match. I was on a darkened street, in a poor area, all alone. Maybe they figured I had some money. Perhaps their discovery that I did not even have a dime was what prompted one of them to stab me in the leg. I don't know. I was not exactly conscious by that point. Let's just put it this way: Magneto's not the only one with a mark.

By the time I woke up, the sun was up. I figure at least ten hours or so had passed. Apparently, no one had felt the need to help the little unconscious kid on the sidewalk. The humans probably had work or something; maybe they just couldn't be bothered. I eventually stumbled into a hospital. No one treated me for quite a few hours, maybe a day. Considering that it was a public hospital, and I was no one important, that should not have been a surprise. I should have known to expect no help from the humans. Then again, if I had been smart, I would never have even gone through the hospital's front entrance in the first place.

Treatment of my wounds consisted of nothing more than a quick check-up and some bandages: a complete joke. The real treatment was the two police officers who tried to put me in cuffs while still in the doctor's office. Apparently, my parents had accused me of arson. Who knows? Maybe they were even right. Even if they were wrong, I have done much worse since then.

At that age, however, I was crushed. My parents wanted me thrown in prison. The police were arresting me. Fortunately, I was just starting to wise up by then. Even more fortunately, Los Angeles has never quite managed to chase smoking out of the public hospitals.

Two men dressed as police officers pushed through the doctor's door, looking grim. They immediately approached me, one trying to subtly keep one hand on his revolver; I noticed.

"Are you, Saint John Allerdyce?" a moustached cop asked, nervously chewing on the smoking cigar in his mouth.

I swallowed dryly at the appearance of the two large men. Trying to glance past them at the door, or at the doctor, I found the General Practitioner unconcerned, apparently accustomed to this sort of occurrence. The two officers had the path to the door thoroughly blocked.

My nervousness seemed to calm the cops because, when the same policeman spoke again, it was with more confidence and gruffness: "You're under arrest for suspected arson, mutant. I recommend that you come quietly."

The second cop tightened his grip on his gun, maybe figuring that would give him a bit more speed: that they might have a fight on their hands. That was a good call. I was scared and I lashed out.

I jumped back from the first cop's grasping arms, and then, abruptly, he was aflame. The second cop smoothly drew his weapon, and I drew my hands into a warding gesture, screaming "Please, don't!" Then the fire was everywhere. I shut my eyes in abject terror, and, by the time they opened again, all that remained in the room was three charred husks. I ran.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up my Zippo. The lighter became a constant companion in my flight from anything and everything. Not one of those disposable units, as long as I gave the lighter a refill every now and, I could always trust my Zippo. Somewhere in Nebraska, I acquired a new name as well. I gave some crook, thinking he could rob me or something, a taste of my power. He was pretty petty, and decided to start some name-calling. Even at twelve, I found him pathetic, but he did say one interesting thing; he called me a pyro. What can I say? I liked the name: better than Saint John certainly.

Eventually, following rumours of people who were like me, and who might understand me, I arrived in New York State. In Buffalo, all the rumours dried up, so I decided to take a chance. If there were other mutants somewhere here, I figured a big enough kaboom would be the best way to signal my presence.

I suppose that I was lucky the professor found me before I blew that empty warehouse sky high. That would have probably resulted in a warrant with which I was not yet ready to deal. Of course, I was slightly less lucky that Professor X sent Scott Summers to find me. Apparently deciding that neutralizing me before I did any damage was his first priority, old one-eye humiliated me. He dragged me to the mansion, trussed up, without my lighter, as if I was little more than a sack of flesh. I had never felt so useless. Cyclops took me to pieces, acting as if all my powers were little more than parlour tricks. All I had left by then was power, and he took even that away.

More than for any other reason, I accepted Xavier's offer of shelter and schooling because I felt worthless; I had nothing else to lose. I was there on the off chance that there would even be someone at the mansion who could teach me how to take down Summers. The place was a school after all. I figured I would spend a few weeks eating some good food, and then hit the road again.

Then I met Bobby.

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_AN:_

This is the first part of four, all of which I have planned. As I am sure readers have guessed by this point, this is a character piece. Part One deals with life before The Xavier Institute; Part Two explores life at Xavier's school; Part Three is about Pyro's time in The Brotherhood; and Part Four returns the reader to the present, where Pyro faces the consequences of Alcatraz. Please, if you have any comments, leave a review. They are my main reason for posting, even if I probably will continue writing my stories regardless.


	2. From Dust

**The Pyre**

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of any incarnation of the Marvel Universe, and this work is not being produced for financial gain. The rights to the characters belong to Marvel, and 20th Century Fox.

From Dust

After Cyclops and the Professor took me to task for recklessness, I arrived at my room in Xavier's mansion figuring that I could spend a night alone with my thoughts. I figured that a guy loaded enough to rate a mansion could at least manage individual accommodations for his guests. Admittedly, the suite was really nice. Tastefully painted, the place had an exquisitely paneled wooden floor, and beds more comfortable than anything in which I had ever slept. The problem was that there were two beds, and one was already occupied.

"Hi," the preppy-looking kid had greeted, acting far too friendly. "My name's Bobby."

Apparently, the boy figured that he rated some of my attention, as he waited a few moments for a reply. I happened to disagree. Bobby, with his well-coiffed hair and trendy clothes, held somewhere between little and none of my interest. Also, although I'd never tell a soul, I was just a touch self-conscious.

I did not have any bags or anything else beyond the clothes I had been wearing and a similar set with which the professor had gifted me; I figured that gift for a bribe at the time. I did not yet realise that Xavier was too ridiculously didactic to try something so underhanded.

My hope was that my stand-offish attitude would keep the little prep away. Taking a seat on my bed, I had figured that I would just fall asleep for the night. Encounters with Cyclops and Mr. Mindreader had left me both physically and mentally exhausted. With any luck, Bobby would have realized that I preferred to not be disturbed. Unfortunately, I did not realize that the brown-haired teenager was always a bit slow about taking hints.

Lying down for the night, I abruptly found myself looking at Bobby's ugly mug. Even now, I am not much for subtlety in speech. If anything, I was more blunt back then.

Pasting an obviously false smile on my face, I spoke my mind: "Oh, hello. Is there any particular reason why you have planted your ugly face above my bed?"

I figured that this was a fairly obvious hint to get out of my sight. Usually, when I turned on some serious attitude, people moved the hell out of my way. I was no longer the well-mannered, little church boy; the street changes a person. Ideally, people to whom I displayed my most condescending bearing became agitated, allowing me the opportunity for a good laugh at their expense. Bobby, on the other hand, still did not seem to get the hint.

Gritting his teeth, but managing to somehow keep smiling regardless, Bobby replied, "I figured that, since we're going to be rooming together, we could get to know each other."

I faked a yawn, offering, "Well, everyone makes a bad call once in a while. Don't let it get you down."

I could not have been clearer without torching him by that point in our conversation. Thus, I was unsurprised when the little twit buzzed off. I wanted a good night's sleep, and I would get one, annoyingly persistent roommate notwithstanding. Admittedly, I was wrong about having chased Bobby away, but I didn't know him yet, so I guess I can forgive myself the mistake.

If I had known Bobby, I would have known that, rather than ending our relationship, my attitude was actually an impetus for him to try another tack. Put briefly, Bobby Drake was used to getting whatever he wanted; he was his family's golden boy. Bobby Drake wanted to get to know his roommate; he would do so, come hell or high water.

I will admit that the first time I woke up covered in snow, only hours later, I had no idea what was happening. I was extremely cold, wet, and annoyed, not to mention confused. The month was September and I was living in New York State. Moreover, I was inside a room, lying down in a bed quite distant from any windows. How could I have possibly awoken covered in snow?

Quickly deciding that comprehending my predicament was secondary to getting out of the frigid cold, I practically leapt out of bed, instinctively reaching into my right pocket for a lighter which was not present. I had briefly forgotten that Professor Xavier had taken my Zippo upon my arrival at his mansion, promising to return my power source once I developed better self-control. Sometimes, actually, rather often, I hated that bald old coot. Shivering and blowing on my hands to keep warm, I completely missed my roommate watching the whole spectacle from a place seated atop his own, far warmer bed.

"So, cooled off a bit?"

I admit freely that, for a moment, finally seeing my smugly smirking roommate, I felt genuine hatred for Bobby.

Teeth chattering, I asked the obvious question, "D-D-Did y-you d-do this?"

Bobby must have missed the borderline maniacal gleam in my eyes at that point because his response was utterly nonchalant. He, in fact, began idly staring at his fingernails, entirely unconcerned by my growing rage.

"Not sure: I suppose it might've been. I really didn't notice though. Cold doesn't bug me much."

"H-How n-nice. D-Do you know what I am going to do to you now y-you b-bastard?"

"Not really: no. Maybe you'll finally tell me your name."

"I'm going to k-kill you!" I screamed, lunging at the other boy, but, apparently, Bobby had anticipated the move.

Dodging my punch with no apparent effort, he replied sardonically, "Well, I suppose I've at least grabbed you attention then."

My next punch, however, struck home. Right in the gut: as expected, Bobby nearly collapsed on the spot. I had spent a year on the streets, learning to take a blow and deal one the hard way. By comparison, my roommate was a wimp. Of course, I did not anticipate that popsicle boy would get cute.

The fifteen year-old who would become Iceman simply raised his hand, and the room became very cold. I suddenly realized how my roommate had filled my bed with snow in late-summer. I really wanted my lighter at that point.

Bobby slowly stood, as I struggled to retain what little body heat the initial chill had not stolen. He was breathing hard, while I simply hugged myself tightly, attempting to ward off our room's new arctic climate.

"D-Don't do that again," he rasped threateningly, "or it'll get _really_ cold in here."

Even as my extremities started to numb, I would not give an inch: "J-J-Jus-st w-wait u-u-u-u-ntil I-I get my lighter."

We both glared at one another, each hurt, but neither willing to surrender. In hindsight, the whole showdown sounds almost funny, I guess: two little kids trying to play at being tough. However, to both of us, at the time, the confrontation was entirely serious.

Of course, prompted by Xavier, Storm was down to our room no more than three minutes later. She gave us a thorough lecture about the institute's non-violence policy, and suggested we try to be friends, or, at least, act civilly. None of that sunk in: even for the pretty boy, no matter how earnestly he pretended to diligently accept Professor Munroe's advice. I did not even feign interest once the African-American mutant had cleared my bed of Bobby's little housewarming gift.

What did sink in was the fact that Bobby, Momma's boy extraordinaire, had not flinched away from the worst I could offer (admittedly, lacking my lighter). That was why, I suppose, I did not let Bobby stew. Knowing now, years later, how his mind works, I figure that, had I given him a night to stew over his failure, the boy might have declared me his mortal enemy, or done something equally grandiose; both of us, no matter how often Bobby denied his impulses, have always loved a dramatic spectacle.

However, something changed for me when we fought. I had not laid him out, nor had Bobby bested me. Bobby had dared to test my abilities; he seemed at least a minor challenge, but not so overwhelming as the other two mutants whom I had met. Those qualities were something I respected, even in a kid whom, if I saw him on the street, I would have passed without a glance.

That was why, in the dead of night, I said it: "Pyro."

"What's your problem?"

"My name's Pyro."

I do not think I will ever understand why Booby replied, after what felt like an eternity, "Mine's Iceman."

There are many people who wonder how Iceman and I ever could have become friends. They wonder how two people who seem so entirely different, at first glance, could even share a room without killing each other, let alone enjoy one another's company.

Most people miss the obvious; Bobby and I have always had two qualities in common, which would come to define our personas. We were both stubborn and fiercely competitive.

"Come on, Bobby. I mean, what are you afraid of?"

"What if Cyclops catches us, huh? I really wouldn't mind missing out on a night-long detention."

I shrugged as if considering his point. "Yeah, I guess with you clunking around I might get caught. You're right," I replied, nodding absently. "I probably am better off without you around."

"I'm not falling for that this time, John."

I raised my hands in concession. "Hey, man, don't worry about it. I mean, I was planning on running through that Sentinel simulation in the Danger Room, but-"

Bobby interrupted me with an exasperated tone: "You know that Professor Summers said that run was too dangerous."

"Well, yeah, if your powers aren't good for much more than coolin' a coupl'a drinks, you'll probably be in trouble, but me, I'm on fire."

Bobby rolled his eyes dismissively, but I knew I had him. I had learned by that time, months later, that my friend was really much more prone to trouble-making than he initially appeared. Bobby just hated getting caught. Moreover, Iceman was always bothered by the fact that Pyro wiped the floor with him seven times out of ten in combat exercises. Quite simply, between the taunt and the thrill of sneaking down to try out the forbidden simulation, I had Bobby dead to rights.

Unfortunately, on that particular occasion, we learned precisely why the X-Men monopolized the Sentinel program. When Storm picked us up the next morning, we did go without punishment; a week in the infirmary was viewed as a sufficient deterrent. Of course, we gave the giant, metallic man another late-night run within the month. Have I mentioned that we were pretty cocky in our early teenage years?

Storm punished us more severely the second time. After all, one gets fewer injuries when one leaves the enemy as a collection of scrap metal. What can I say? Swift temperature variations and metal men just do not mix. I should also say that Bobby and I did not lose often. Neither of us was ever really big on humbly accepting our failures.

I guess I did miss our third commonality earlier. Both of us had egos the size of New York State as kids. Even now, my mind boggles at some of the things we pulled off. Who else ever dared hack into restricted danger room simulations, let alone whip through the X-Men's training regimen at fourteen? Did anyone else ever steal all Summers' glasses, or light Storm's hair aflame? I certainly do not recall anyone else daring to freeze Xavier's wheelchair to the ground. We figured that we were immortal and untouchable. How could anyone possibly handle both fire and ice? We never figured an enemy might come upon us unawares at the mansion, or take us while we slept. Bobby and I were young, powerful, and, despite my experiences on the road, far too naïve.

While there were, admittedly, many good days back then, there were also very bad days. The mansion was always at its worst for me just prior to a prolonged holiday.

Everyone would go home to their families for Christmas Holidays. They would spend the whole time celebrating. There was always so much excitement at spending some time – even a few measly days – with family. I remembered, and still recall, when I was that innocent. Sundays of Mass and hearty feasts, surrounded by a 'loving' family, were a perpetual echo, reverberating throughout the darkened, dank caverns of my mind. Bobby was always unbearable before a holiday.

"Hey John, what's up?"

"What does it look like?" I snapped.

Raising his eyebrows, he replied, "Hey, you don't have to bite my head off. I was just asking."

"Well don't."

Admittedly, I can be slightly difficult at times; I freely, if rarely, admit it. Bobby had come back after Thursday's classes to find me lying in my bed and glaring stonily at the ceiling. To him I probably appeared as some four year-old, pouting that some treat was withheld. When holiday seasons rolled around, I do not think that Bobby ever understood me. His loving, ignorant family was simply an impassable chasm, dividing us for a few weeks of each year.

"Come on, John. It's two weeks off: fourteen days and a night without a single class. Aren't you at least looking forward to seeing your family?"

Bobby sounded entirely incredulous. He simply could not comprehend why anyone would be less than ecstatic upon the night preceding a holiday weekend.

Idly, I flicked my thumb upwards, summoning a comfortable click from my lighter. The warm steel never queried my motivations. The subtle flicker was always simply there on command. Another light tap quenched the flame. Gently, as always, I offered fleeting caresses to my power: my control.

"Hey, John, come on. Talk to me!"

Obviously becoming exasperated at my stillness, my only friend at Xavier's institute made a grab for my zippo. He missed. However, if his aim was to incite a reaction, Bobby was right on target.

My eyes flashed down to his own, as I whipped my lighter away from his grasping hand.

"Hands off!"

Without conscious thought, I popped the lighter's cap, summoning a swiftly stoked flame. No one, not even Bobby, messed with my fuel.

Within seconds, Bobby was backing away, hands held up in a placating pose.

"Hey, come on John. I was just joking."

My roommate appeared distinctly unnerved by this point, as I replied with no less than my most steely glare. Doubtless, he was also unnerved by the still growing flame in my left hand, summoned to compliment the gentler blaze retained by the lighter on my right.

"John, seriously, you know I'd never touch your lighter."

I relaxed only slightly: big mistake.

Always the prankster, Bobby's hands joined in a classic cops and robbers pose: "Bang, bang, you're dead."

Before the first word had left his mouth, a light blue beam reduced my Zippo to a frozen block. Of course, by the time he had completed his sentence, a fireball was flying towards Bobby in recompense. Unfortunately, Iceboy was barely singed. I had only intended the ball as a lukewarm threat, and, thus, had failed to imbue the flames with any serious heat; the throw had been made purely instinctually.

The next few hours were spent in every young mutant's preferred pursuit: testing the powers of oneself and one's peers. I have always wondered wryly how Bobby explained slightly singed hands or hair to his folks when they picked him up that night. Of course, I usually try to avoid such musings. At least Bobby had parents to creatively deceive during his teenage years.

More often, in recalling the numerous times when Bobby cheered me at my worst, I remember the one tack he never tried. Not once did my best friend seriously try to engage with my problems. His way was always to banish dour moods, even if only for a few hours. Perhaps, this tendency was natural in teenagers; I certainly did not ever make more than cursory efforts to understand my peers' problems. I had enough difficulties of my own.

Needless to say, once Bobby departed with his parents on Friday night, darker musings returned redoubled. After all, my best friend still had parents who cared for him.

However, in one aspect, at least, winter break was preferable to most other holidays. Xavier, never a huge fan of forest fires, rarely showed quite so much disapproval when my powers reduced his snowy yard to a swimming pool. Minimally, he never appropriated my Zippo over changes to the Institute's winter wonderland. You see, when I become agitated, large swathes of land have been known to mysteriously experience _really_ warm spells. The Professor, for whatever reason, has very little sympathy for warming up the globe: must be his tree-hugging bent.

Of course, the winter heralding the coming of 2004 is foremost in my mind for more than merely my pre-Christmas angst. The fourth year of the new millennium was also when Rogue made her first appearance. The girl was pretty, I suppose, but more than a little too unapproachable for my tastes; I have always preferred to avoid potentially life-threatening situations after all. Bobby, on the other hand was smitten from the moment he first laid eyes on the introverted young woman.

At sixteen, our friendship underwent a considerable shift. One frightened girl managed to complicate everything. Strangely, however, even now, after she has betrayed everything in which I believe, my ire is scarce.

Rogue became a friend. Somehow, the unobtrusive mutant snuck past my defences. Whatever else Rogue has done and caused, I cannot begrudge her a smidgen of my gratitude. I neither had, nor wanted, any friends at Xavier's School. I managed to find two friends, nonetheless, and, to this day, I have always wondered whether I might have been better off remaining with them.

Then again, I have always been a hot-head. I doubt the X-Men would have taken a kid whose main power involved rampant pyromania anyway. Neither my personality, nor my powers, ever resulted in positive public relations for muantkind, even on the rare occasions when I attempted to help. Of course, PR was never a priority for Magneto, where humans were concerned. Even if my friends were X-Men, my ideals have always shared far more with Magneto's vision than the pipe-dreams of Charles Xavier.

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_AN:_

I am very sorry that I must offer this chapter so late. It has, in fact, been a week since I promised an update. For the most part, I will avoid excuses, but, I will ask for your feedback on this part, as the last third proved remarkably difficult to write. I am also not sure whether I am entirely content with Pyro's portrayal therein. Also, did Bobby seem in line with his character in the films. I hope that my portayal was believable to film-goers, but I am not sure how strongly the comic books and cartoons have influenced my interpretation. Comments on that score would also be greatly appreciated

Also, I have finally mapped this story out in its entirety, and the narrative will actually require six chapters, rather than the four I initially predicted. The next part should be particularly interesting, as the interlude to come will be the only chapter not written from Pyro's perspective. While I hesitate to set a definite date of completion (after the last fiasco), expect the part within the next two weeks.

Thank you to all who reviewed, or even simply read the story. I would love to hear from you again.


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